Roan (The Henchmen MC 17)

I wasn't sure why Mikhail - Roan - chose the latter.

Maybe it had just been easier to break into crime than trying to get in with a private security firm, or open his own investigation company or martial arts gym.

From what I understood about getting burned, you were left with nothing.

Just whatever was on your body, whatever cash you had maybe been smart enough to stash somewhere in the world. No work history. No savings. No nothing.

It was probably the quickest, easiest thing to get into an outlaw biker club. Even one as choosy at the one Reign ran.

Besides, I figured I wasn't wrong in assuming that he had come out of his past life with contacts even if they knew him by a different name. Reign had likely gained a bunch of new overseas arms dealers to add to his already somewhat impressive list of contacts.

I couldn't help but wonder as I staked out the compound if he liked his new life. He was always right there in that glass room, watching the world with those wolfish eyes, ever the picture of patience, of resilience despite everything.

But stationary.

He was - like I had become - used to a life of movement, of never settling anywhere long enough to put down roots.

He was also surrounded by people.

He had connections on jobs, those he spent time with, maybe even forged bonds with.

But his job - and therefore his life - had always been solitary.

Now, well, he couldn't turn around without bumping into one of his brothers, their wives, the kids.

And, well, I pondered the weakest question while watching him there too.

Did he ever think of me?

My life had been dedicated to him, in one way or another. He was a factor in every move I made whether he knew it or not.

All the time alone, looking down at the world, he had to have his mind slip away. He had to think about the things he had done with his life.

But did he ever think of me?

Did he ever regret what he had done to me, what he made me become?

Did he even care?

I think that was the thought that finally had me digging under the gates, what made the sweat and filth and risk worth it in my head. If he didn't think of me, I would make him think of me. If he didn't care, well, I would make him care.

It never occurred to me that we both had very different experiences of the same situation. I couldn't have guessed that we had both been screwed over by elements beyond our control, that we were both pawns on a chessboard manned by nameless, faceless, powerful people so high up in their towers that our lives, to them, were that of ants.

And they didn't need to feel bad about angling a magnifying glass on us, burning down everything, watching us catch fire.

How could I have known?

How could he have known?

That it was all for nothing?NINERoanHer voice trailed off, thick, rough, scratchy with the effort it was taking to keep her emotions under control.

It couldn't have been easy to know your entire life had been built on the back of a lie, one that forced you so far off the path you were originally meant to walk, made you trek through dangerous lands, meet vile people, fall down, have someone kick you while you were down there. All the while doing so because you believed down to your core that it was all worth it because you would one day make someone pay for all of it.

Only to learn they hadn't done what you thought they did.

Fuck, however hard it was for her to feel it, I was pretty sure it was just as hard for me to hear it, to know that she had sat there all alone, scared, hurt, confused in that hospital room hoping I might walk through the door, then realizing I never would.

Fuck.

Even the thought of it now, so many years later, sent a stabbing sensation through my gut.

Then losing her parents like that, when she was still so broken?

I'd never hated myself. But I hated myself a little as I stood there with her, arms wrapping her up, helping hold her together because I knew how close she was to crumbling. She'd been so strong for so long. All by herself.

I'd known a little bit about her job finding people. Janie and Alex had heard back from their contacts, had pages and pages of jobs she had supposedly worked on - from human trafficking to runaways to ransom situations. She had covered it all. In every corner of the world.

Alone.

For fifteen goddamn years.

But I guess they had been so busy researching that angle that they hadn't looked for the basic things like news articles. About the bombing, about the bank, about her parents.